by Ahimsa Kerp
High in the mountains there was a cave. The alchemist had slept in it several times over the years, when he was collecting roots and herbs in the late summer or early autumn. It was not well-hidden and there were always signs of others--charred remnants of fires and small animal bones deep in the cave. He had always had it to himself, though, and so he did again.
Though it kept the worst of the wind and snow from him, it was cold and miserably wet. The rocky walls of the cave were constantly damp and dripping. The ground was the worst, however; uneven, rocky, and always numbingly frigid. Zuste tried not to complain. He was lucky to be out of the winter weather. It rained often, but it snowed just as much. Finding the cave had been a stroke of luck. Even luckier, he had not seen any lifeless this high up in the mountains.
When he’d left the Dacians’ camp, he hadn’t even said farewell to Rowanna. He had wanted nothing more than see her again, but he couldn’t face her. It was he who had killed her son, along with so many others. She could never have forgiven him. He didn’t know that he could face her hatred, knowing all the while that he had earned it. Without Rowanna there, he hated himself enough for the both of them, enough for the world.
He knew that they had meant for him to die. Because he was fat, because he wasn’t a warrior, they had forgotten that he was a woodsman. None, not even Natopurus, knew better than he did, what herbs and roots one could survive by. He had as much knowledge of the area as any man, even when it was swathed in mist and snow. Giving little thought to survival at first, he’d remained alive more from habit than desire. These mountains normally had shepherds, some even in the winter, but they were free of men now. Living men, at least. There had been few lifeless—most had been killed in the battle, and a single man drew far less attention than a camp of hundreds. Twice he’d killed one in a panic—clubbing their heads with a great branch he’d dragged halfway up the mountain.
The cloak of solitude was not new to him, but after the companionship of the Roman camp, he wore it heavily. He surprised himself several times by finding tears slipping down his cheeks. Ever and always, he considered death, but the urge to live, even this miserably, was too strong.
He wasn’t eating much, but he had enough herb lore to get by, even in the winter. His clothing felt looser on him and he was losing a great amount of weight. He didn’t even have to shit much anymore, which was kind of a relief. A man was never as vulnerable as when he was squatting over a small hole in the ground, and with the lifeless around, it was a real danger. His beard, which had always been full, kept growing. There were streaks of grey in the coarse black hair. He was getting old. He began mumbling to himself and occasionally realized that lucidity was perhaps slipping away from him.
There was no room for sanity left in the world now, and that was entirely his fault. If only he had known. He couldn’t even remember the man’s name. Something foreign, though he’d looked like a Roman. He had said he hated the Romans too, more even than Zuste. The joke was that he had not even hinted that it would hurt anyone other than the Romans. Still, the alchemist should have known. He had been blinded by the lure of the money, and the man had paid him several fortunes.
The alchemist laughed at that. Silence fled timidly as the cave filled with the sudden sound. All the gold that was buried under his home in Sarmizegetusa. It was sure to have been burned down now, the money discovered and taken. He hoped so. Even if he could make it back, he wouldn’t ever be able to spend that money. That blood money. Not that, he suspected, he would he be willing to give it up if given a choice.
The wind howled, wolf-like, and even in his furs, Zuste shivered. He could picture the man who’d paid him as clearly as if he were sitting in the cave next to him. He’d been so focused, and he had not been wrong, the alchemist realized. The Romans had killed his people, killed all peoples. The lifeless killed because it was their nature. The Romans killed because they were greedy, cruel, and savage. They were the threat. He’d almost forgotten that. He would have to take care not to do so again.
"The empty headed traveler will sing in the presence of a robber," he muttered, his voice hoarse from disuse. The cave swallowed his words as though they'd never been spoken at all. A chill ran down his neck, and without knowing why, he looked up.
At the mouth of the cave, three pairs of yellow eyes stared at him.
“Zalmoxis,” he whispered. He had not built his fire yet this night, and though he had a large stick, it was not sharpened. It was a club suitable for killing lifeless, the baneful, but he’d never intended on using it against wolves.
Nonetheless, he knew a show of strength was his only hope. As the creatures drew cautiously further into his cave, he leaped to his feet. He grabbed his club and brandished it, banging it on the walls and floor. “Come on in! You want to eat old Zuste? Well, just try it, you furry fucks!” He shouted this and other inanities at them, barely conscious of anything other than the need to make noise.
One of the wolves growled. None of them retreated. Zuste swallowed his bitter fear as his mind spun in panic. Wolves were not natural predators of men, but they were strong and quick enough to kill a man. It was only their temperaments that kept their jaws from the throats of vulnerable people. With the lifeless prowling their haunts, it would be enough to make them aggressive, to forget their timidity, and to ensure their rampant bestiality.
The wolves moved deeper into the cave. He wasn’t sure if there were more behind the three or the late evening light was playing tricks on his eyes. Regardless, he had to act now.
Zuste charged. He raised the branch above his head and brought it down in the middle of the wolves.
They scattered and his branch missed them entirely, hitting the floor. The force of the attack broke the stick in half and he cursed. There was at least one wolf behind him now, as well, and he whirled. The broken, pointy stick felt like a sword in his hand, and he waved it ferociously.
The wolves were all deeper in the cave than him now. They drew together and one of them whined. There was something so plaintive about that sound that he lowered his stick. “What is wrong?” he asked.
Claws on stone drew his attention back to the front of the cave. More wolves stood there. Many more. Their eyes did not shine with any color at all. They were, in fact, white. Pupiless.
The alchemist wasted no time. He charged the lifeless wolves, his stick raised once more. Like their human counterparts, the animals were listless, slow. His first hit cracked down solidly on the shambling wolf, but it did not seem to notice. Trying to picture what Iullianus would do, Zuste spun into action like a warrior-god.
His left foot caught his right as he spun, and he toppled into a heap. His weapon skittered off across the cave floor. It felt right, to have his world end in an isolated cave, and his death was in the form of a weapon of his own making. The justice of it relaxed him as the undead wolves surrounded him.
He could not close his eyes, however. That final surrender was not available to him, justice or not. He could smell rotting meat on the teeth of the nearest wolf. Zuste leaned his head back, offering his throat and hoping for a quick death.
Then the wolf was gone. Beside him, yipping and snarling, were the three wolves that had first entered his cave. Zuste rose, bewildered, but joined in the fight. Lacking his branch, he clasped his fists together and brought them down on the undead beasts’ heads. When that didn’t work, he jabbed his fingers into their eyes. That slowed them down and the other wolves ripped them apart.
One of the living wolves was split open and the remaining two were hobbling. Zuste, feeling ridiculous, offered them shelter with words and gestures. They slinked out. He worked for some time in the darkness, removing the bloated bodies of the lifeless wolves. The floor would have to wait until the morning, when he could bring up some water from the river, but his home felt like his again. The moon was high in the sky at this point. It was later than he’d stayed up for some time.
He felt giddy. Not only had he survived, but he had al
so come to a decision. He wanted to live. He needed to live, and to stay here was tantamount to suicide. Eventually, he would not survive the marauding lifeless. When the weather grew better, he’d return to Sarmizegetusa. Though he risked death, it was better than this limbo in which he now dwelled.
****
The next week was a busy one. He collected fibers, bark and other ingredients. Though his hands froze to blue, and he wasted long hours sifting through the snow to find nothing beneath, at last he had enough material to make a net.
He had found other useful plants as well. The roots of the plant the Romans called Amoracia, which could cure coughs and infections alike. The main root he kept, but the branching ones he planted back in the ground, so that the plants would continue to grow. Even if humanity failed, it was his duty to keep nature’s state as perfect as he could. He found several spindly willow trees and carefully removed several long strips of bark. Properly prepared, they could reduce fever and ease pains.
Some would make their ropes and nets out of catgut or sinew, but plant fibers were not only more abundant and easier to create, but they could stand getting wet as well. It took some time, as he had to extract and prepare. He had collected what he needed and had a collection of elm, flax, white oak, and willow. From there, he slowly twined the cords together. It took two weeks, but at the end of it, he had a net and several long lengths of very basic rope.
The first thing he did was tie a low piece of rope so that it hung at the entrance of the cave. His worry was that a group of lifeless would enter and trap him. The rope might trip the clumsy bastards, or at least give him some warning. So far, he hadn’t seen any lifeless on his excursions, but he still whirled at the smallest sound. The snow continued to pile and Zuste worked slowly and meticulously as it grew colder and whiter.
CHAPTER XXIII
Brundisium: 88 CE, Winter
It had not been easy to convince the Dacians that their leader had changed into a monster, but Iullianus had managed it. “He must,” Iullianus had said, “have taken a wound in the battle and not told anyone. Only his great strength kept him alive as long as it did.” The stunned Dacians had banded together under Diegis—a sturdy bear of a man, who promised to lead them to safety.
There were not any warriors to spare, but Iullianus had convinced Natopurus to come with them. Rowanna came as well—the idea of being a childless mother, surrounded by others’ children, made her feel too sad and too old. They came down the Carpathian Mountains and a week later, crossed the Donaris river, traveling south into Moesia. It was a strange land, full of Thracians, Dacians, and others that spoke a language that none could identify. It had been recently reorganized by the Romans. The roads were good, there were soldiers everywhere, and forts they could sleep at every night.
With Iullianus’ help, they’d entered the tiny town of Salmydessos, and within a few days, found a ship willing to take them across the Adriatic. Neither of the Dacians had been on a ship of any size before. At first, it had been a marvel. The sea had been a shade of blue that Rowanna had never seen before—like the sky on the clearest of summer days, but richer and more vibrant. The waters turned rough the first night and she was violently sick for the remainder of the journey.
They had landed in a busy port city called Brundisium late in the evening two days later. It was huge—far bigger than Sarmizegetusa, though vastly more dirty and more violent as well. Danger lurked palpably on the streets. There were more people living in the town than perhaps all of Dacia, Rowanna suspected. It was full of travelers who were on their way to or from Greece and further east. They had found a room at a cheap tavern, and Rowanna had fallen asleep immediately, before dinner. She had barely managed to sleep on the ship, and welcomed the bliss of dry, steady land. The other two had come to the room after she had fallen asleep and had shared the other bed.
When they awoke the next day, the city gates were closed. A Roman army had crept up in the night and besieged them, and none were allowed to enter or leave the city. Rowanna had laughed when she heard. Natopurus had been furious, as had Iullianus, who had that morning immediately gone to the Forum and presented himself to the Senate.
He met Rowanna and Natopurus on the city walls later that afternoon. From their high vantage point, they could see the army camped out on the frozen ground before them. Behind the besieging legion was the Via Appia, which led straight to Rome.
Rowanna wrapped her arms around her knees. The wind had a chill to it and at their height, it blew more steadily. A movement caught her eye, as Iullianus was climbing up the stairs to the wall. As he approached them, his sad smile and slight head shake told them everything.
“They wouldn’t listen to you?” Rowanna asked.
His slight head shake and frown answered the question for them.
“They told me no, by Mithras. Can hardly blame them, cockless old bastards though they were. I don’t look like your average Roman.”
“Not to mention,” added Natopurus, “that a commander with no army is no commander at all.”
“There is that, too,” Iullianus conceded. “I doubt much that my appearance or lack of army mattered. The decree has come directly from the Emperor. I inferred we are not in the only city that has been closed.”
“What will we do?” Rowanna asked. It seemed ludicrous to have come so far only to fail now.
“After the Senate, I reconnoitered the city’s gates, thinking we could bribe or kill our way out.”
“And?” Natopurus asked.
“No chance. There are far too many soldiers posted at each.”
“Well,” said Natopurus, stroking his long beard, “the solution is clear. We cannot leave on the ground, so we shall leave by air. I’ll go make a potion.”
“What?” Rowanna said.
“That is a fantastic idea,” Iullianus said. The other two looked at him.
“I mean the part about not leaving on the ground, not the flying bit. Even Zuste could not have done that.”
“Zalmoxis’ cock. I’m the best alchemist there is, far better than that herb-collector, but I cannot do the impossible.”
“When the dead walk,” Rowanna said, “impossible is not a word with much meaning.”
“It is true that we cannot fly. Nor can we walk,” Iullianus said.
“So what will we do?” Natopurus asked.
“The docks,” Rowanna said, though the idea of getting back on a boat to her was about as loathsome as she could imagine.
“Clever girl. We have to get out of this city, and there just may be a pirate who will take us.”
“I want to go,” said Rowanna.
“Me too,” Natopurus growled.
“Impossible. I am conspicuous enough as it is. Escorting a walking beard and a fair-haired foreigner—it’s asking to be noticed. Meet me back at the tavern tonight.” He stood, his lean body already moving into action.
The Dacians descended the steep steps more slowly, and behind and beyond them, the Roman army waited with the patience of a corpse.
****
When Iullianus entered the tavern that night, he was beaming. He found the Dacians sitting at a table covered with plates of bread and fish. They ate in the Roman style, with their hands. The part of table not covered with food was instead devoted to beer and wine. The two had, it was apparent, been drinking for no small time. The tavern was filling up slowly as night settled over the city.
“Well,” Rowanna asked, “what happened?”
“I’ll answer your question with one of mine. Who is the greatest man to have ever lived?”
“Ever?” Rowanna asked. “Probably Spargapeithes, the greatest King the Dacians have ever known.”
“Hmm,” Iullianus said. “Could he have secured a boat out of a city closed by the Emperor himself?”
“No,” put in Natopurus. “He probably would have just killed everyone who got in his way, the legion included.”
Iullianus scowled at the two of them. “Perhaps I’m not as great as
your greatest King. When it comes down to it, I’m no Nechtan the Great either, but I did find us a ship.”
“Amazing,” Natopurus said. “You are a hero of the ages.”
“When do we leave?” Rowanna asked.
“Early tomorrow morning, on the first tide.”
“It’s evening now,” Natopurus observed, “what shall we do until then?”
“You can do as you like,” replied Iullianus. “As for me, my plans should soon be evident. Corripe Cervisiam!” he added, illustrating his words by seizing a beer from the table and downing it in moments.
“You don’t drink like a Roman,” Natopurus said.
Iullianus put his beer down to the table slowly. “I may grow tired of saying this someday: I am no Roman. My people live as far away from Rome as you, and maybe further even, because you cannot reach us by land. We have our own battles with the Romans.”
“Then why would you ever serve them,” cried Natopurus exasperatedly. “If you’re one of us, you don’t act like it.”
“I was taken at a young age,” Iullianus said with a shrug. “I can scarce remember my parents or village.”
“We can teach you some of our customs,” Rowanna said. “For instance, Dacians have the best drinking games.”
“Who needs a game when you’ve got a beer?” he asked.
“This might not be the right time, Rowanna,” Natopurus added.
She wanted to see this through. She raised her drink into the air with her right hand, and at Natopurus with her left. “Three, two one,” she called. By habit, she spoke in Dacian.
“Let’s speak in Latin for the benefit of our pupil,” Natopurus chided.
“Tres, duo, unos,” she said with exaggerated pronunciation, again pointing at the alchemist. Natopurus chanted quickly and pointed to Iullianus.
“Three, two, one,” he said, “what?” he asked, as both smirked at him.
“Drink!” they exclaimed. “You didn’t point.”
“I don’t think I have the best teachers,” he said, drinking deeply from his beer.
